


in my head, in my heart, in my soul

by kakikaeru



Series: the ocean breathes salty [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minako Okukawa - Freeform, Minami Kenjiro - Freeform, Nishigori Takeshi - Freeform, Nishigori Yuuko - Freeform, Off-screen Character Death, Phichit Chulanont - Freeform, Seung Gil Lee - Freeform, Some mentions of violence, Those Triplets, because I wrote it, don't @ me about historical geography this is ALL IN GOOD FUN, featuring sirs not appearing in this film:, guest cameo by:, hiroko katsuki - Freeform, if you figure out who JJ is you get a prize, mari katsuki - Freeform, toshiya katsuki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakikaeru/pseuds/kakikaeru
Summary: "The Prince allows Victor to turn him with the assurance of a man who is used to those same hands in the tenderest sense; Victor has one hand on his elbow and the other slung around behind him to hold his shoulder, under his armour, keeping him close in an almost embrace. The sharp wind blows the high tail of the Prince's hair against Victor's cheek, their steps are slow and synchronized."Have I told you today how lovely you look?"Drawn into a conflict outside of his responsibility, Victor Nikiforov, the greatest general of the age, appears to have met his match in the shy Prince of Japan who surrenders on the fields of Goryeo.





	in my head, in my heart, in my soul

The morning breaks cold and clear, the sun rising watery and ineffectual over the frost covered scrub that dots the hillside of their camp. Victor is awake to see it, he has grown unaccustomed to sleeping alone, and his tent - meticulously curated with items pilfered from conquests across the continent - feels too large and empty despite the familiarity of his bed roll and the plush carpets beneath it. He breaks the ice on the chipped porcelain bowl that serves as his washbasin and begins his toilette. Today, of all days, Victor must look the part he has spent his whole life being groomed to play.

Born the cousin of the Tsar, Victor's youth was idyllic and peaceful. He was free to roam his family's landholdings as he pleased, beloved by his parents, adored by servants and serfs. His childhood had been indulgent but also effective - he excelled at any subject his tutors could provide, most particularly in the areas of language and analytics - and Victor grew up kind, inquisitive, and thoughtful. Athletic and well-formed, a cunning fencer who rode as well as he danced, it was not until Victor arrived in St. Petersburg to be introduced at his cousin's court that he became aware that he was beautiful and a prize, and that the attentions of the young women and their pushy mothers was distasteful to him. His manners prevented him from cruelty, but that created a heartbreak of a different sort.

To avoid scandal in the capital, Victor accepted when he was enlisted into the service of his cousin and dutifully led a small company of men twice his age against the Swedes, where he spent two years recovering the Northwestern border and winning a great many accolades for himself. When he returned, older, sharper, having grown into the full faculties of himself, his cousin sent him south to fight first the Turks and then the Qing. It has been over ten years since Victor has seen the capital of the country he has devoted so much of his life defending, but then, Victor has never lost a battle, never conceded a border, has earned himself the title of the Left Fist of the Tsar and the tenuous respect of men around the known world as the best general of their time. He has become a living legend; they speak his name with fear and reverence, and each letter from his cousin contains a new title, merit, medal, but never a summons home.

Victor is no less beautiful now than he was in that first summer at court, despite what could be considered some hard living on campaign and the edges that come to a man in his profession. His hair no longer covers his shoulder blades, but it still falls over one crisp blue eye in an ash-blonde sheet. He combs it this morning into a careful wave, the ends oiled and curled like the foam on a crest, his eye the cool depths underneath. Victor is meticulous in keeping his hands and face clean - he has scars, as all men do, but they sit under his clothes and do not mar the pale skin stretched like fine linen over his high forehead and sharp cheekbones. Today he dabs rosewater on his collarbones and beneath his wrists, the places where frothy lace would sit if he were at home, and idly wonders if the frivolity is still in fashion.

Last night Victor pulled his uniform from the small wooden trunk where he keeps his clothes and aired it on the delicate lattice screen he found somewhere in Mongolia. The coat's wool is green and the buttons brass, there is an impressive amount of gold cord and embroidery. He will practically glow on the field, unmistakable, a perfect counterpoint. Victor's boots are polished, his cravat is pristine. He is just settling his saber at his hip when there is a familiar call outside the flap of his tent.

"Come in."

Victor has known Christophe for years; they first met in the Steppes when Victor persuaded Christophe to abandon the Austrians paying him to cross the Danube and instead join the employ of the Tsar. It was a gamble at the time; a Swiss Italian with a mercenary army behind him, Chris was loyal to the highest bidder, and Victor hadn't exactly had permission or access to the treasury. He later found out that Chris' motivations were completely selfish - he was keen to test himself against a strategist as famous as Victor, but even more interested in the way Victor's thighs filled his trousers, and how he could get himself inside them. Answerable to no king or country, Chris could afford to be free with his affections, had the luxury to be who he was, an ability at once foreign and enviable to Victor, who had responsibilities that followed him no matter where he stood on the globe. They did not fall into bed together. Victor was much too uptight and prim for such blatant advances, but Christophe had a capacity for kindness even bigger than his carnal appetite. When his flirtations did not wear Victor down, Chris happily looked elsewhere and instead worked to develop a relationship of profound respect and trust. Christophe has saved Victor's life more than once, and is perhaps the only person Victor considers a friend.

"You look well," is all Chris says, and reaches out to straighten a braid of gold hanging across Victor's chest. He is dressed rather plainly, considering his penchant for extravagance, and this says more.

"Thank you," Victor whispers, and he means it.

Victor has long dismissed the two men assigned to stand sentry overnight, but there are bodies waiting at attention outside his tent anyways. Georgi grew up with Victor, the night to his day - born one day after, they shared the same wet nurse and childhood experiences. It is not a surprise to see him there; Georgi has a soft heart finely tuned to the sublime agony of romance, no doubt he can smell the blood in the water. Victor claps him on the shoulder and meets the open stare of his companion. Nearly a foot shorter, almost as pale as Victor himself, Yura is openly glaring, his arms crossed in a blatant misinterpretation of how a guard should comport himself. There are bags under his green eyes, which are red from either lack of sleep or some other emotion he will never admit to - it had been Yura who argued the longest, the loudest, and did not concede but allowed Otabek to physically remove him from the discussion with only a modicum of resistance. The steady, dark haired nomad has been a more positive influence on Yura than Victor could ever hope to be, and wherever Yura goes, his tall shadow is not far behind. His absence this morning is rare, and can only mean they have reached a consensus between themselves that Otabek is needed elsewhere.

"Let's get this fucking over with," Yura growls, but Victor is already moving as he speaks, Georgi and Christophe falling into step. All around them, the men are waking up and breaking camp. Victor is respected and liked by the men in his command, and on any other day they might wave, salute, greet him jovially. This morning, Victor keeps his gaze locked ahead, and ignores the meaningful glances boring into his back. No one is pleased, but there is nothing to be done.

Otabek is waiting outside, because of course. Victor has to swallow against a sudden tightness at the back of his throat - Yura would deny to the ends of the earth that he cared, and fool no one, not after this - he dismisses them all to prepare to leave and enters the tent on his own. He wants none of their company for this, and they promised him this moment alone.

Makkachin is there. She left Victor sometime in the middle of the night, whining plaintively over a situation that to her made no sense, and seeking no doubt to rectify it. Her snout is over an armoured knee, and her tail thumps on the ground, but that is the only acknowledgement Victor gets. Makkachin loves nothing more that to have her ears rubbed, and not even the presence of her master can oblige her to dislodge a hand at the task. Victor whistles softly, the one that tells her to leave his side and get out of danger, and Makka does go, but not before depositing a few slobbery licks to the hand that has been devotedly petting her curly fur. Victor watches the palm curl into a fist, as though to keep the kisses there.

Katsuki-no-miya Yuurihito Shinno does not look up or speak. There was a time when Victor wondered if the Prince ever met anyone's eye, but they are far beyond that now. Instead Victor pretends this is a kindness, an opportunity to openly admire someone whose person is meant to never be looked upon without permission. Victor thinks it is the greatest cruelty the universe could devise, to place upon the earth a being so perfectly made, and then deny everyone the ability to appropriately appreciate its loveliness. Chris had said that the standards of this part of the world considered the Prince plain, and they are fools. The Prince is _beautiful_. Lean and elegant, soft but strong, built of delicious contrasts - his hair, when loose, falls in a curtain to his waist like inky silk, and his skin glows, faintly golden and smooth, the perfect canvas for the charcoal smudge of his eyebrows and eyelashes, the rosebud of his mouth and the petal stain that bleeds across his cheeks and darkens his ears when he blushes. His large eyes are the colour of well-aged Madeira, and when they meet your own, you are drunker than an entire cask could achieve, dizzy with their intensity and the rarity of the gaze. Victor stares, hungrily, desperately, and waits until he is safely composed to break the silence around them.

"Good morning."

It is one of the few phrases he has been taught, and it startles the Prince, but not enough for him to look up. Instead his hand squeezes harder and his head bows even more, despite the fact that he is meant to lower himself to no one save his father and elder half-brother. The Prince however, has always been a study in meekness, even if to assume he is submissive would be a costly mistake. It is one the Qing made two years ago, when this Prince met them on the shores of Hasetsu with a much smaller force, chased them across the sea and over Goryeo, back over their border until they were forced to sign a treaty with the Japanese Emperor, and leave the island kingdom he ruled alone. Victor had been impressed by both the victories and the strategies employed in gaining them, especially when he learned the Prince was young. He had never expected to meet him, but then, there have been many surprises for Victor where the Prince is concerned. The silence lengthens and deepens once again, but Victor is no longer apprehensive of waiting; the Prince is quiet, and to try to force him is to put your hand into the mouth of a sleeping bear.

"Jiangjun," he says at last.

The choice of it stings - the Prince has difficulty pronouncing both of Victor's names, and early in their acquaintance had chosen to refer to Victor with the Chinese word for his rank - Victor has taught the Prince about diminulatives, has heard them spoken in the darkness in the soft tenor of the Prince's voice, just as equally as he has been victim to the unintentional hurts of the walls the Prince maintains around himself. It seems today is a day for the latter, but Victor has long been adept at hiding his pain. He can be cut, but rarely allows himself to bleed.

"Your imperial highness."

That makes him look up, if not at Victor, then at least beyond him. The Prince stands, shoulders back and chin high, every inch the son of an Emperor, second in line for the Chrysanthemum Throne. He is dressed once again in the blue-black armour he surrendered in; it is the first time Victor has seen it. The Prince had traded his person as ransom for the safe passage of his starving, wounded men, and by the time Victor returned with his scouting party to relieve Yura of the temporary command, the Prince had been stripped of his clothes and was enduring being tied to the ground and beaten senseless, because Yura was inexperienced, could not recognize a mon from a tuteng, and only understood surrender as an embarrassing sign of defeat. But the Prince is not weak, far from it - he is intelligent and sensitive and profound - all of it wrapped around a core of steel that made him stumble from the support of Christophe's shoulder to hold back Victor's fist when he raised it a second time to take Yura to task for his mistake. It was the Prince's words that stayed Victor as much as the strength of his grip.

_A soldier is only as learned as his superior allows him to become._

The words were spoken quietly, in accented French that the Prince has learned from the priests unsuccessfully trying to spread Christianity throughout his father's empire. It is the language they most frequently converse in, the Prince is fluent in the dialect spoken on this part of the continent, but Victor knows only enough to get himself out of tense situations, and neither of them knew a word of each other's mother tongues before fate collided them. Victor wants to learn them all, wants to tell the Prince so many things in words he will truly understand, but instead he has only the few unimportant phrases he has managed to pull from the Prince's stuttering, shy lips, everyday things that Victor guards as precious because they are all he has. He would like to tell the Prince that things have been better since he came, that Yura listens more and Victor is less sharp with him, that the men who have followed Victor for so long out of a sense of duty and country seemed to revive from a deep sleep once the Prince was here to give them purpose. That Victor himself, at last, is awake, and that he fears this new awareness more than anything he has ever faced on an open field of battle; he is not sure he can endure without the numbness to protect him. It's too deep of a crack, too close to the surface, Victor draws in a quick, tight breath, and at last the Prince looks at him.

"You are ready?"

Victor ought to be asking him that, instead, but it feels like less of a question than an assurance. The Prince's eyes widen at Victor's appearance, there is a tell-tale indentation in his cheek where he is biting the inside of it. Victor wants to put his index finger inside that mouth and smooth the bite away, wants to run the pad of his finger over the Prince's tongue to coax him to say all the things he never speaks out loud, but that Victor understands nonetheless. He wants to admit that of course, the soft curl in his hair, the pinches he gave his cheeks, the rosewater, they are all gifts for the Prince alone. Instead Victor sets his wrist over the hilt of his sword, shifts his posture into something jaunty and winks. A thousand Boyarinas would have fainted on the spot, but the Prince frowns softly, the barest crease between his brows, before it disappears behind a smooth, indecipherable mask. He nods once, perhaps to answer his own question, and holds out his wrists.

Victor does not want to do this, he does not want to do any of this, truly, but this small thing seems most distasteful of all, to bind a man so above the concept of honour he adheres to, to belittle his importance among them to merely that of a hostage. The Prince has given Victor three letters to be delivered to a man in Siam that he trusts, a dagger that is meant to be passed to Yura, and a lock of his own hair to keep, looped and then secured with Victor's old blue ribbon in the center to make a figure eight, an unbroken infinity that Victor is carrying in the inside left breast pocket of his coat. Somewhere under the metal breastplate decorated with blue cord and scrolling waves, the dark blue robe embroidered with black flowers, the three fine layers of white undergarments, the Prince has hidden a piece of Victor's hair, folded within a handkerchief bearing the cyrillic initials ВН. Victor takes a length of thin rope from his coat pocket and uses it as an excuse to hold the Prince's wrists in his hands. All the fine bones are covered by the fabric gauntlets he is wearing, the slender backs of his hands and the rise of his knuckles, only his palms are exposed, and Victor wonders, as he loops the rope, if he placed a kiss there, would the Prince curl his hand to keep it too?

When the knot is secure, long after the excuse to touch him has faded, the Prince looks up from the rope and into Victor's eyes, the emotion in them too jumbled to understand. "Tell me something," he whispers, "for luck."

He can't. Victor whimpers, pathetically undone by a request both so empty and too much, and before he can take it back, take control, the Prince presses forward, his fingers curling into Victor's coat and his mouth over Victor's own, soft and soothing and a little melancholy, not at all how their final kiss should be. Victor cups the Prince's beautiful face in his hands and kisses him properly, as he ought to always be kissed, with passion and devotion and care. When it ends the Prince buries his face in Victor's chest, breathless, shoulders shaking. Victor folds his arms around him and begs for forgiveness in Russian to every god who may possibly be listening; if it is wrong for him to love so deeply, surely the penance ought to be paid by Victor alone. But they have become so intertwined, the strings of their lives so knotted and tangled, that it is impossible now to remedy without cutting. The Prince is sobbing softly in his own language, an exquisite, flowing thing, and Victor tightens their embrace, sets his sore eyes against the warm, smooth comfort of the Prince's neck. So long as the Prince's breath does not grow short, it is fine for Victor to wait him out, it is fine for Victor to indulge in allowing himself to feel sorrow, safe with his arms around the only man, the only person, he has ever loved.

" _Solnyshko_ ," he whispers when the Prince quiets. "I love you more than life itself."

The Prince does not understand, though he recognizes the pet name, but Victor needed to say it, even if it is only in his own language. He has grown to realize that it is unpleasant in the Prince's culture to speak of emotions directly, that the subtlety of expression is of more value, that love is private, and meant to be delivered in code or in soundless little ways that seem like nothing, but days later become apparent in their ends. Victor pined in lonely silence, believing himself alone on an island of feeling, oblivious as the Prince drank tea without asking for it to first be tasted, as he quietly settled disputes amongst the men, as he mended the things in Victor's tent. Russians are very direct - it took the Prince cleanly dispatching five armed brigands with his bare hands to save Yura's life and the tender, careful way he wiped the sweat from Victor's brow as he lay recovering in the sanctuary of the shrine before Victor thought, just perhaps, something existed between them that might be mutual. To have won the Prince's heart, so freely given despite his high, heavy walls, is the greatest conquest Victor has ever achieved.

"I… I am ready, now."

He does not look ready, but the Prince is very good at lies, at speaking a falsehood and willing it into truth through sheer determination. To deny him would be cruel. Victor takes a cloth from his coat pocket and ties it very carefully around the Prince's eyes. He is nearsighted, and cannot see well beyond ten paces; the blindfold, like everything else about today, is for appearances. But with his eyes covered, Victor can at last look at the Prince as he needs to, with the pain and longing he feels openly expressed on his face, just for a moment, before he has to live forever behind a mask. Victor presses a lingering kiss to the Prince's forehead, and then takes hold of his elbow and leads him outside. It is Christophe and Otabek who take over then, one on either side. The Prince says something quiet to each of them, Christophe in Italian and Otabek in Chinese, and then his hand opens and closes awkwardly, searching, until Yura steps forward and puts his own over it.

"I'll be right behind you, pig, so don't even think about running."

It is the first true smile of the day, a dazzling thing that nearly rends Victor's heart in half, and turns Yura a furious, teary red.

"Thank you Yurio. I am depending on you."

Yura grunts in response, circling around to keep his word. As Victor leads this small party to where Georgi is waiting with the horses, the Prince, walking behind, reaches out to hook his fingers into the little belt of fabric on the back of his coat. Victor and Christophe have only a small company of soldiers with them; they sent the bulk of their men north to rejoin Yakov at the border and kept a selection of the most capable and trustworthy for this task. That they have failed makes everyone dawdle even more than they might on a regular march day. Victor boosts the Prince carefully into his saddle and then swings into his own to hold both their reins. The Prince is an exceptional rider, he needs neither hands nor reins and can steer a well-trained horse with only his calves and heels, but he has always been gracious in allowing Victor to care for him with these kinds of little tasks. The waiting is agony for Victor, but the Prince sits calmly, his bound hands resting in his lap, apparently unbothered by the fact that he cannot see. He has grown up in an environment even more restricted than Victor's own, and is more skilled at hiding his real emotions.

It is a short ride to the encampment of the King of Goryeo, but they march it slowly, as though they are conserving their strength for a battle at the end of it. The Prince has extracted a promise from Victor that it will not come to that, but they are both strategists by trade, too used to planning for every possibility to avoid it now. Victor had desperately argued during negotiations that he needed to bring the Prince personally to the coast and could only ransom him with General Nishigori, the Prince's second-in command and a trusted friend, but all Victor's pushing achieved was to get the two-faced King out of his capital and here, on this rocky, icy plain, with a full complement of his best soldiers, who in turn are meant to hand the Prince over to his older half-brother, waiting at the tip of the peninsula.

The Prince is betrothed to the King's sister, and on the strength of his relationship with a girl he had never met, had been dispatched with his men to help Goryeo fend off an assault from what he thought were the Qing in the north. Victor had been lead south when what he believed was a large army of Qing was amassing on the border. Fully committed as the vanguard, the Prince was betrayed by the generals of Goryeo, left abandoned, penned in and surrounded, and Victor was content to let the army starve in the canyon. He left Yura to keep an eye on things while he and Christophe went to scout out why four fifths of the army had suddenly disappeared. When Victor returned the canyon was empty, he had been beginning to think that he had perhaps been duped, and the handsomest man he'd ever laid eyes on was suddenly his prisoner. It took only two attempts on the Prince's life by men too capable to be merely highway robbers before Victor learned the whole truth.

Though he is the second son, it is no secret in the court of his homeland that the Prince is favoured by his father. The second and last child of the Emperor's third, and most beloved wife, the Prince grew up careful of his place, surrounded by the silken walls made of the kimono of the women who protected him: his mother, his older sister, his tutor Minako, and the court lady who was his childhood friend. He has told Victor in great detail about the palace he grew up in, of the dog he had as a child who looked like Makkachin in miniature, of the hot springs he bathed in and the pond that froze solid enough in winter for him to slide over it, his feet bound in thick, soft silk. His childhood seemed as full and caring as Victor's had been, but as the Prince grew, as he outstripped his older half-brother in feats of intelligence, strength, and artistry, he became a quiet youth, less likely to laugh, more apt to defer to his brother to ensure the safety of his mother and sister. The Prince walked a delicate balance; behind him is his younger half-brother Minami, the same age as Yura and far too innocent and trusting, far too liable to show his preference for the Prince when he could not understand that their elder brother would see this as a threat.

Despite his caution, despite his withdrawing from the court and his attitude of humbleness, it had been the bold, competent warfare of the Prince on the sandy shore of Hasetsu that saved his people from invasion. He became a hero at home and abroad, where in Goryeo his likeness was painted onto scrolls and sold to noblewomen and merchant's daughters. The Chrysanthemum Throne preferred to remain aloof in the politics of the continent, but the Emperor agreed to an alliance with the tiny kingdom when it was supported by his ministers. The Prince was given a fiancée, and his older half-brother created the perfect plan to dispose of him.

The Prince was endlessly capable of surprises though; what had not been bargained for was his capacity to be selfless. He gave himself up for his men in a feat of bravery so admirable and unusual it won him Victor's respect, and then, his aid. Victor offered to be of assistance because it was the honourable and gentlemanly thing to do, and then he fell hopelessly headlong in love. He has known a garden of exquisite sweetness in the Prince's gentle hands, a bower of his own making that sunk every sharp thorn into his heart when he ultimately failed to keep the Prince safe. Victor is delivering him to a death sentence; the Prince does not expect to make it out of Goryeo alive. Victor came up with elaborate schemes to ride north, to take the Prince behind the Russian border and break the tentative truce between their countries, but the Prince forbid it. For the safety of his mother's household and his younger half-brother, the Prince will die tragically and honourably, and Victor will now finally and truly know what it is to be alone.

When the edge of camp becomes visible, Victor halts the company and has them fall into position to wait. He has chosen an area defendable with the numbers he has; not for long and certainly not without all of them dying doing it, but long enough that if anything today goes wrong, Otabek and Yura could haul the Prince to safety by riding west, where Otabek is a prince in his own right and capable of hiding him long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Victor is a man of his word, but all bets are cancelled if the King of Goryeo tries to test him today. Victor's horse dances under him, sensing the tension of his rider, and the Prince reaches out blindly to put a calming hand on the animal's neck.

"I hate waiting," Victor mutters.

"I know."

"Are you certain-"

"Please, I am composed. But I will not be able to remain so if you continue."

They fall silent then, until Christophe quietly says "The delegation is coming."

Victor is to walk the Prince into the neutral space between the two armies, he will leave him there and then retreat his men out of range so the King's soldiers can collect him. As a mark of good faith, Lee Seung Gil himself will retrieve the Prince. Victor does not expect Lee to fulfill whatever sinister promise he has made to his ally on the tip of the peninsula immediately, but Victor's wrath once the Prince is not there to stop him will be swift and unflinching. He will never invade the Prince's beloved homeland unless the Tsar orders him to do so, but he will ride into Goryeo, and they will know nothing but fire and lightening, be annexed for the sake of his vengeance.

The Prince scrambles from his horse before Victor can dismount and help him, and he bows very deeply to the men who will remain behind. "Thank you," he tells the ground, "For your kindness and hospitality, I shall forever be grateful." A few soldiers, hardened veterans who have been with Victor for nearly a decade, shake their heads. Someone mutters in Russian about how wrong this is, and Yura quickly quiets them with a string of useless expletives, the way he always speaks when he is upset. Otabek pushes his horse a bit closer and gives Victor a small nod. They had discussed, at length, about exactly the steps Otabek will take today to ensure Yura does not try to do something foolishly brave for the man he believes he owes his life to.

Victor makes his steps loud, so the Prince does not startle when he suddenly touches him. The Prince allows Victor to turn him towards his fate with the assurance of a man who is used to those same hands in the tenderest sense; Victor has one hand on his elbow and the other slung around behind him to hold his shoulder, under his armour, keeping him close in an almost embrace. The sharp wind blows the high tail of the Prince's hair against Victor's cheek, their steps are slow and synchronized.

"Have I told you today how lovely you look," Victor says quietly, with only the Prince and the wind to hear. His cheeks darken under the edge of his blindfold, but he says nothing. Victor squeezes his shoulder. "Will you promise to remember me as I am today, dressed my best for you?"

"I will never forget anything about you," the Prince murmurs. "You are always beautiful to me."

Victor bites his lip and lets his eyes water, the wind is a good excuse, and the Prince cannot see. "You have changed my life. I was just existing, before."

"I… my time with you, you have made me the happiest-"

"Don't," Victor gasps. "Don't say goodbye to me."

The Prince's steps falter, enough that Victor has to catch him so he doesn't stumble, and when their hands clasp the Prince holds Victor's impossibly tight. "We can never be separated. I will carry you with me, just as you will bring me wherever you go."

The conviction in the Prince's voice is enough to make Victor believe that is true. "Where shall I take you, _zolotse moya_?"

"Across your country, I want to see all the places that made you. Take me home to St. Petersburg and show me the sunrise on the harbour."

"Will you glide with me on the pond, and introduce me to your mother and sister?"

"They will know you instantly. It is impossible to look at me and not see you, the man who has taught me my own heart, and lives inside it."

Victor's steps come to a stop, halfway between two armies, and the Prince halts in front of him. His breaths are shortening, and Victor does not want to leave him.

"I have to go now," Victor says gently. "Will you be alright?"

"Yes," the Prince lies. His lips curl into the smile that he doesn't ever mean, the one that shields his sadness and makes people overlook the fact that he is fighting against the tightness in his chest. "Hurry back, or Makkachin will be worried."

Makkachin will likely never forgive Victor for returning without the Prince, the man she knocks over to deposit kisses onto, the man who finds and throws sticks for her amusement, rubs her belly and feeds her not scraps but her favorite things - strips of meat, oatmeal, pieces of cheese - she will follow Victor at a distance and whine, and then when they go to lie down in their tent, alone, she will curl up on the other side of it, her back to Victor in her hurt. He will deserve it.

"Please be careful," Victor says helplessly, ineffectually, because he cannot say what he wants to say.

The Prince turns slightly, perfect mouth open to speak, but Victor doesn't see it. Over the Prince's shoulder a man stands up from the scrub. He has been waiting for the Prince to move, for a favourable angle, and he has an arrow nocked and aimed at the Prince's exposed back, between his shoulder blades, where Victor has planted gasping, adoring kisses as the Prince keens beneath him. The release sounds so loud, even though there's no way Victor could have actually heard it from such a distance, it is more likely his brain supplies the familiar noise in his panic. All Victor has time to do is throw his arms around the Prince, and spin.

"Huah!"

It hurts a great deal more that he thought it would; Victor has been shot before, but never in so vital an area. The arrow punches into his back, the pain terrifyingly difficult to pinpoint, and he pushes the Prince away, onto the ground, desperately worried it might pierce them both. Victor tries to draw his saber and turn towards the assassin, tries to defend the last piece of his heart. The Prince shouts, startled and confused, frantically trying to divest himself of both blindfold and ropes. He tears the cloth down around his chin just in time to see Victor get shot a second time through the chest above him, and to catch Victor when he falls.

"Vitya! Vitya!"

There is a lot of noise in Victor's ears, and a daunting feeling that he has a lot of responsibilities somewhere that he is forgetting about, but the Prince is all he can see, his cherished, exquisite face so close. Victor is cold and his body hurts, and he wants to steal the fire that he has seen burn behind the Prince's eyes, climb inside them and warm himself, see everything the Prince sees. Victor reaches his hand up to cup the Prince's face, and frowns when it smears red over his soft cheek.  The Prince isn't looking at him, is pressing his delicate, slender fingers to the sore space in Victor's ribs.

"Yuuri?" Victor breathes, and then smiles when their eyes meet. "Yuuri."

It feels good to say it, the Prince's private, personal name, a secret Victor had been given and allowed to keep. "Yuuri," he says again, "I love you. I love you so much…"

"No, no please! Don't! Don't say goodbye, Vitya, look at me!"

Victor tries, but the day is growing very dark, and he's so tired. "I am looking at you," he mumbles, and then slips away.

 

* * *

 

A soft breeze blows into Yuuri's room, warm with the promise of summer to come. The thaw is well and truly over in the gardens, the cherry trees a riot of pink blossoms. Yuuri sets his comb aside and meets the gaze of his reflection in the silvered glass. It is called a mirror in the west, the picture as clear as a crisp still pond. When it arrived from Switzerland, it sent a frenzy through the ladies of the inner court, all of whom longed to sit before it, preferably with Yuuri seated next to them. He'd removed it to his personal quarters as quickly as possible, and spread a rumour the glass had broken to deter any further nonsense. It was exactly like Chris to send so unthoughtful and well-meaning a gift, something that would of course cause Yuuri so much trouble, but be so enjoyed by the Prince in his own privacy that the sting was barely felt. In the silver mirror Yuuri can see every detail, can comb his hair into a perfect fine gloss. He has taken to wearing it loose or tied low at the center of his back with a thin blue ribbon. It is impractical for a man in his position as _Shōgun_ \- a soldier wears his hair in a top knot or tail - but Yuuri has developed a reputation at court for eccentricities since he came home from Goryeo last year.

He gets gracefully to his feet and backs up a few steps; Yuuri has taken care in his dress today, the first day of April and thus layers of deep burgundy, a colour which he feels suits him much better than the soft peach of March. Both his outer-most kimono and hakama are plain, Yuuri does not have official duties to attend to today and is free to his own pursuits. His servants have set out his schedule, where sloppy, childish kanji inform him that he is to spend the morning "leisurely, sleeping and relaxed" before he is expected at a private family picnic. He threads his wakizashi through his belt and tucks his fan into the fold of garments over his chest, fingers resting briefly over the thin fabric of the handkerchief he keeps in his nagajuban over his heart. Yuuri turns one way, then the other in his mirror, he does the steps to his favorite Noh Mai, the true reason the gift brings him so much pleasure. Satisfied, he walks to the screen and whistles.

Makkachin is an older dog, the fur of her snout is shot through with grey curls, but she still behaves like a puppy. Her paws patter over the tatami, and Yuuri braces himself. Makka found the many layers of fabric Yuuri was obliged to wear in the palace incredibly strange, she is forever tugging on Yuuri's sleeves in an attempt to find his hands so she can be petted, and bowling him over in his hakama. She barks when she sees him, and Yuuri sinks to his knees to receive her excited kisses, to rub her furry belly and coo at her in the only language she understands. Yuuri does not speak much of it, but he knows enough to communicate with his dog.

Once he has greeted her properly, Yuuri makes sure Makkachin sees him take up her fabric ball from its tray beside the door and tuck it into his sleeve. He does not like to have her leashed - though Makka is a large dog and frightens a great many of the people at court, who mistake her exuberance for malice, and think she might be demon - he wants her to feel at home. He has discovered that she will follow him very dutifully if she thinks he might eventually produce her ball and throw it. His favourite leisure is rewarding her good behaviour with a game of fetch in his private garden.

Yuuri steps out of his rooms, onto the engawa and into a beautiful morning. The date of the picnic has been well-chosen, which will no doubt be pleasing to all those in attendance. His steps today take him around the Botan Pavilion, the palace gifted to him by his father when he came of age, and in the direction of his library. He takes the shortest, quickest route, the one that avoids the Sakura Pavilion, where his mother will be having tea with Minako-sensei, and the Ume Pavilion where Yuu-chan will be patiently assisting Mari-nee-chan with choosing an outfit that meets the requirements of court but still allows his sister the full range of her movement. Were it not for the mourning that still drapes the pavilion of the Emperor's first wife, Yuuri would ask his father to adjust the rules of the inner court more to Mari's tastes, but it is improper to over-step himself. Especially since Yuuri has abdicated in favour of Minami-kun and poured salt into the wounds of his dead elder half-brother's mother, who was an innocent bystander in Yuuri's revenge.

His justice had been abrupt and merciless, completely out of character for the man known at court as the shy second Prince, but Yuuri returned from the continent a changed, bolder man. He has no fondness for bloodshed, Yuuri is a skilled swordsman and a fortunate general, and he has done what he needed to survive, but nothing had ever filled him with visceral rightness than the feeling of striking his brother's head from his shoulders. That the Crown Prince was a traitor who had conspired to have Yuuri killed and attempted to frame Goryeo or Russia for it - nearly pitching the entire continent into war for his petty jealousy - was a secondary, helpful convenience to the very personal grievance Yuuri had with his brother, and the jolt in Yuuri's wrists as he severed his brother's neck almost negated the pain. Almost tallied the sleepless nights and the tears and the way he sometimes sank into melancholy in his quiet moments. Almost.

Yuuri has always enjoyed a closeness with the Emperor that his other children do not have, possibly because he and his father are most alike, and because of her two children, it was Yuuri who had inherited his mother's soft smile. Yuuri was bestowed gifts by the Emperor in a public recognition of his honour, and a private one of his ordeal. He was allowed to remove himself from the succession, was allowed to break his betrothal with Goryeo's princess and swear he would never take a wife, and was instead made head of the national military and advisor to the new Crown Prince. Minami-kun is keen to learn from Yuuri, keen to impress and uphold himself to the impossible standard he believes Yuuri exists at, and Yuuri loves his little brother, he will be a fine Emperor someday. Yuuri will lead his armies and keep his borders safe, though he hopes that the times ahead will be peaceful.

Before Yuuri had snuck out of the canyon in the dead of night, he had left his swords and a letter with Nishigori, along with very specific instructions. Yuuri could tell the difference between the armour of the nomads in southern Russia and the Qing; he saw the Europeans in the ranks surrounding them and knew the Russians would be drawn into a larger conflict, that his elder half-brother had not thought out the bigger implications of his schemes, namely, that the Qing would take any advantage of unrest in Goryeo to expand their borders east and north. He had explained everything in his letter as clearly and as apologetically as he was able, that his hand had been forced and left him with no other choice, that Russian forces would not be able to take Yuuri north once he was their prisoner lest they violate several treaties, and that if Yuuri should die on the mainland before he could expose the Crown Prince, his father would invade, regardless of whose hand it was at. Yuuri's men had needed food and medical supplies and a ship, and Yuuri was very good at politics. It had been Yakov who received Yuuri's letter, and furnished Nishigori with the necessary items.

It would be later, when the Russian army thundered over three hundred thousand strong around a rocky, icy plain in Goryeo and surrounded the honour guard of Lee Seung Gil, that Yuuri would learn of the magnitude of Yakov's aid. He had sealed the border and bought Yuuri time, time that allowed Nishigori to sail home and contact the Emperor in secret, and then sail back with a larger force to surround the Crown Prince on the peninsula and hem him in as he had tried to do to Yuuri. It was Yakov who negotiated the terms of surrender, forcing the King of Goryeo to sign an agreement never to meddle in the affairs of the Japanese royal family again - persuaded more by the immediate threat of Yurio wanting to stab him than anything else - for Yuuri had been more pressingly occupied at the time.

Yuuri knows that Yakov did not do any of that out of kindness towards a foreign prince, or even to avoid a war, he did it because Yuuri had surrendered himself into the hands of the man Yakov helped raise, and Yakov had spent over a decade digging that man out of trouble. The debt Yuuri feels between them is one-sided, and the need of repayment solely Yuuri's sentiment; Yakov had been adamant that he had no desire to see Yuuri ever again. If things had gone differently, perhaps honour would not dictate the requirement for Yuuri to disrespect his wishes; for Yuuri had been perfectly willing to gamble his own life to keep peace on the continent, but paid a much, much higher price. Yakov might be a father in all but name, but Yuuri had still taken from him a son.

He has sat long into the night, turning each step over in his mind in an attempt to see where he went wrong, where he could have prevented his undoing, the tragedy that still overwhelms him in his nightmares, and sinks him to the tatami clutching his tightened chest and unable to breathe. It is impossible sometimes for him to accept the truth, that he is something worthy of sacrifice.

Yuuri had sat in silent tears outside the surgeon's tent, listening as the screams grew weaker and then ceased completely, until there were only the wet sounds of the surgery within. Yakov left Yuuri alone to his vigil after that, clutching a bloody green coat and cursing the sheer idiocy of a country that would send its sons to battle with nothing but fine wool and embroidery to gird them. Yuuri passed his second sleepless night in as many days with the frayed lock of his own hair - sliced in half by the arrow - crushed in his fist, and when the sun crested pale over the horizon and he still had not been given leave to enter the tent, Yurio came to him with a mug of the dark, bitter tea the Russians enjoyed, pressing it into Yuuri's hands and settling his own small, fur-lined cloak roughly over Yuuri's shoulders.

_Don't fucking freeze to death out here, moron._

Yuuri could appreciate the indirectness of Yurio's speech, the way he said one thing and meant something else, easily readable to someone who had grown up in the court for the Chrysanthemum Throne. Yurio was young, a boy really, with his heart on his very irascible sleeve, and Yuuri knows someday soon the Qing will have their hands full trying to keep him, Otabek, and the army they led together out of their lands. That he still has Yurio's friendship is a relief; a parcel has arrived each month without fail. Comforts from home and gifts for Makka, rewrapped and forwarded through a Siamese merchant of Yuuri's acquaintance named Phichit, who found Yurio so hilariously adorable that he carefully preserved the curt and impolite missives that accompanied the items, and dutifully passed on Yuuri's answering letters. They correspond in Cyrillic, so that Yuuri might practice in secret, and learn what Yurio called "all the important words", which Yuuri suspects meant profanities. They do not speak of the events that built their acquaintance, a rare, delicate tact in Yurio's otherwise abrupt behaviour.

 _Victor Nikiforov is dead_ , Yurio had said meaningfully when they parted, and allowed Yuuri to embrace him before Yuuri stepped onto the ship that would carry him back across the sea, away from the landscape that had been the backdrop to the great romance of Yuuri's life. It is unlikely he will ever set foot in Goryeo or see Yurio and Otabek again. Yuuri speaks a prayer for them at the shrine whenever he visits, that they might grow and flourish, that they will never be separated or know sorrow. That they too, might someday feel the happiness he felt, camped under the open stars with Victor asleep naked beside him, spread out and exposed in all his loveliness for Yuuri to look upon and cherish. That their hearts might grow so big they feel like they will beat out of their chest every time their eyes meet or their hands brush, that they become assured in the love of one another, and know they are never alone.

At the door to the library, Yuuri squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. He steps out of his zori and inside, pulling the door noiselessly closed behind Makkachin.

"Good morning," he calls.

The library is for Yuuri's private use, and everyone else is forbidden from entering here. On his orders, it is kept free of the choking incense that burns in every corner of palace, a smoky offering that he has banned from his pavilion and anywhere else he might be found throughout the day. Despite the whispers in court of his tempting bad luck, Yuuri has had the shelves of the library reorganized in a deliberate reversal of positive flow, so that a collection of furniture from the continent - a low couch with mismatched cushions, a lattice screen, and several thick carpets - could be placed by the south-facing shoji. Makka tries to bound ahead, and Yuuri expertly grabs her by the scruff of her neck and whispers that she has to heel. She still forgets to be careful.

"Good morning!"

His voice is a little feeble now, though no less alluring, it still sends delicious shivers down Yuuri's spine. The court doctors have assured Yuuri that the strength of his baritone will return with time, and not to rush the miracle. He lost a great deal of blood, and began his treatment in a field, far away from expert medical care, in the dead of winter - less than ideal conditions for a quick recovery. One of his lungs had been punctured, but his heart never stopped beating, never gave up on the Yuuri that lived inside it, that he came back to in defiance of all odds. It shouldn't have been so surprising, Victor Nikiforov is a _living_ legend, he has never lost a battle in his life. If he grows short of breath quickly, if he needs to sometimes lean on Yuuri when they are walking or cannot make love as frequently as he used to, it is a small thing. Yuuri has all their lives to be patient, and he can bear the guilt of Victor's slow-seeming recovery, because he has been entrusted with the far greater responsibility of Victor's happiness. It is a duty he has applied himself to with devotion.

"How are you _, anata_?"

Victor is most fondest of this form of address, adopted by Yuuri because he still had trouble with Victor's name, and felt that he ought to have something else precious for him, when Victor has so many terms of endearment for Yuuri. He is dressed today in a white kimono with the barest hint of purple, well chosen by Yuu-chan for his delicate colouring, and clearly to complement Yuuri in its contrast. Victor prefers not to wear hakama, and zori hurt his feet, instead Yuuri has had thick tabi specially made for him, lined with soft fur and without the slot between his toes. Victor is used to boots and woolen socks and many layers of closely cut linen, Yuuri frets over his comfort constantly despite Victor's assurances that he lives far more comfortably now than he ever did on campaign. He trusts no servants with Victor save Yuu-chan; every night he takes Victor to the hot spring himself, carefully combs out his lengthening hair in the steam and wraps him into a yukata, and then settles around him in their over plush futon, the room warmed by braziers to an almost uncomfortable level. It has prompted him to sleep naked, and Yuuri has not yet ascertained whether Victor truly does feel a chill at night, or if he just enjoys being able to cup Yuuri's bare buttock whenever the mood strikes him.

"Well, very well, _zolotse moya_." Victor's smile is wide and shaped like a soybean, and he pats the couch beside him, next to where his feet are curled beneath a blanket. "You look so beautiful this morning!"

Yuuri leans over to kiss him, letting Makka settle over Victor's feet. He runs his fingers through Victor's hair; it falls now loose to his shoulders, each strand captured starlight.

"Not so beautiful as you," Yuuri admits.

It is an undeniable truth, when Victor looks like a kitsune-oni come to lure Yuuri into the woods and pleasurable sin, and Yuuri by comparison - with his narrow face and too-large eyes - is so awkwardly plain. But it still prompts Victor to make a loyally indignant noise, completely at odds with the pleased flush that blooms like a rosebud on the tip of his nose. Yuuri wants to put his mouth over it; instead pulls the pillows from behind Victor's back and replaces them with himself, climbing carefully onto the couch and bracing Victor between his knees, folded up in his wide sleeves.

"It is not too cold?"

Victor shakes his head and twines a lock of Yuuri's hair between his fingers, kissing Yuuri beneath his jaw.

"Did you enjoy your rest, _solnyshko_?"

"You have been planning my schedule again," Yuuri smiles. "Your kanji are improving."

"Minako-sensei says mine are better than the triplets."

Yuuri nods very seriously. "She tells me you are her best student."

"I am a quick learner," Victor says, in terribly accented but correct Japanese, prompting Yuuri to kiss him again in agreement, to settle with him more comfortably on the little couch where they shared their first coupling, passionate and incandescent and life-altering. Yuuri would not have left this couch in Goryeo for all the gold in his father's Empire, could not part from any piece of his time abroad. Even the sorrow was sacred to him, touched as it was by Victor's presence.

He folds back his sleeves so he can hold Victor's hands in his, and the sunlight catches on the simple golden bands they wear on the third finger of their right hands. This type of adornment is considered highly gaudy and continental, but Yuuri only cared that it was important to Victor, and wore his with pride. He likes to turn it with his fingers when he stands to his father's right at court, a reminder of who is waiting at the end of a particularly arduous day of politicking. It is a comfort to tap the back of it with his thumb when he is kept for too long in the hallways by an enterprising and delusional daughter of some minister – not aware or disbelieving of the reason an attractive foreigner walks three steps behind Yuuri at all public functions, the traditional place for a consort. Yuuri never mentions it, but these ladies have a way of departing from the palace amidst scandal in a clockwork fashion that belies the handiwork of a skilled, strategical mind; the way Victor and Mari-nee-chan glance at one another and flash their fans is certainly suspect.

Yuuri smiles and laughs a little to himself, it is contagious; Victor grins wide, his eyes sparkling like the sun on the southern sea in Hasetsu, and puts the tips of his long fingers on Yuuri's chin. "What is it, Yuuri? Tell me what's made you so happy."

He says the same prayer he uttered when Victor first opened his eyes and recognized Yuuri at his bedside. Spoken so often now - to Victor every morning and every night and many times in between - that Yuuri is no longer embarrassed or shy of the all-encompassing ardour that has burned him up from the inside, remade him into a better version of himself. He had been worried, at the beginning, that the frequency would dull their importance, but to give is to increase, and what is between them is bigger than any force, and cannot be broken.

"I love you, Vitya."

**Author's Note:**

> just something for all those people patiently waiting for Courage to update: a completely different thing.


End file.
